The Light of the Shadows
by Becky215
Summary: Thornton and Mr. Hale discuss family, forgiveness, and philosophy.


_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended._

**The Light of the Shadows**

**By Becky215**

The men sat quietly, serenaded by the ticking pendulum and the quiet rush of dinner preparations in the kitchen. Thornton's appointment was later than usual, and the men found themselves at home in the silence. One can never know the thoughts that occupy men's minds. To look at them they are peaceful and serene. To look inside them they are wild and unfettered in the possibilities of ideas and fears.

Richard Hale thumbed through the Bible in search of a passage to compliment his lesson on truthful virtue. He thought of his daughter and the empty echo of Maria's laughter in the corridor; he often imagined that he could hear it, but he was discovering now that he was usually wrong.

John Thornton perused a copy of Sophocles' later plays. His finger followed the text on the page, but he hardly absorbed a word of the dialogue. He thought of Margaret pressed against the shadows of the night, her hands on the stranger's shoulders, the fear in her eyes when she met his gaze at the station. He wondered what she'd been thinking, who the man was, what he was doing and how long he'd been holding Margaret Hale in his embrace. He often imagined that he would be the one to hold her like that, so tight and warm in his arms, but he was discovering now that he was usually wrong.

"This might do," Hale said, proffering a well-worn copy of the Bible to his pupil. Thornton reached for it but let the book rest in his lap. "Are you quite alright, John?"

"Yes, yes sir. Sorry. My thoughts seem to have carried me out of the room," Thornton apologized. He remembered the conversation with Margaret in the corridor with a grimace.

"We could wait another day, if you like. I can't imagine Plato has written something new that can't wait till next Tuesday," Hale smiled. Thornton looked at the book and touched the paper-thin pages. He could tell that his friend had not been sleeping. He wondered what it would be like to close a chapter of one's life with the loss of a beloved partner. He knew his own suffering after losing the dream of love; he couldn't bear to imagine losing the reality of it. The lessons kept his friend occupied while opening their minds to the sunshine of new ideas; perhaps it would help them both to look beyond the clouds for another hour or so.

"No, I think I can manage," Thornton said, leaning forward to read the psalm that had been selected.

"Something you'd like to talk about?"

"In honesty, I was actually thinking about fathers," he confessed. He did not relinquish that he'd been considering Margaret and her father; their dissimilar personalities confounded him, and it was not the first time that his thoughts had abandoned the books at hand to think of the Hale family. He'd once believed that he knew Margaret, but the discoveries of the past week had ripped apart the illusion. He was left to grudgingly believe that his good and simple friend was the father of a reckless and conniving woman. The conclusion did not settle well.

Hale interpreted his student's admission quite differently. Not excluded from the gossip of Milton, he knew that Thornton had lost his father at an early age. He toiled over the horror that must have caused for the child, and he often wondered what presence and courage had encouraged him to follow such a path to success.

"Well, that is an interesting subject, and something to discuss, most certainly," Hale sighed. He abandoned the text he'd been reviewing and asked,

"Are you wondering about-"

"Nothing in particular, really. I've often wondered what it would have been life to have had a father. People say that a father makes his son the man he ought to be, and I…well, I don't suppose it matters, does it? I am the man that I am. I can't imagine it would have changed if I'd had a father."

"But you do have a father," Hale pressed. He saw Thornton's consternation and explained, "Just because something is not with us doesn't mean that it never existed." He thought of his son retreating into the darkness as he embraced him one last time after Maria's funeral. He slept each night by believing that his son breathed and laughed and lived in another world.

"I don't really like to think of my father as a father," Thornton said bitterly. "I've always believed that a father has his children and raises them to be the men they are mean to be."

"Men and women, you mean," Hale smiled over his spectacles. He thought of Margaret as a child and her insistence to be included in Frederick's lessons. He liked that she often fell asleep with a tome of Shakespeare in her arms, that she had a mind for figures and interest in the world beyond Britain.

"Of course," Thornton replied. "In my mind, my father is not a father because he did not finish the job. Fanny was only a girl when he…died, and I could barely call myself a man if I was still in short trousers."

"I can see your opinion, John, but I'm not sure I entirely agree. Not about your father, of course. You're entitled to more than your own views on that, I'm sure," he said quickly. His student smiled understandingly so his teacher might continue, "Rather I'm considering your argument that your father was meant to make you the man that you are today. I'm uncertain that that is the path of the world. After all, our good friend Aristotle said that we become just by performing just acts, that we are temperate by doing temperate actions, brave by being brave, and so on."

"So what do you mean?"

"Well, what I mean is that you might very well be the man you are today—good, reasonable, thoughtful, just—because you've always _been_ good, reasonable, thoughtful, and just. If that connects together, I think it quite accurate."

"And so having a father is meaningless?" Thornton countered with cunning. He knew that Hale relished the academic debate, the act of pulling thoughts and examples from the dusty books crowding his shelves, but Thornton himself savored the spark of life that emerged in these discussions. He enjoyed changing the angles of ideas and uncovering the notions he'd never before considered.

"It is hardly meaningless, but I believe you might assign us too much credit. Didn't Plato say that fathers, 'dying as old men, they will hand down similar lives to their offspring'? The generations are made to create life for the next."

Thornton marveled at the memorized citation but countered, "I like to think that I've made a better life for myself and for my family than the one my father left to me."

"Indeed you have. And, really, I suppose it begs the question of the family. Is the family meant to be the center of all things, as Plato argued in _The Republic_, or is it a mere rational creation that we have made for ourselves, as Aristotle suggested?"

"I think that the family has meaning beyond pure rationalization. I only brought up the subject because I was…marveling that parents could be so different from their children," Thornton said slowly. It was a fair disguise; in talking about Hale and his daughter, John's words suggested to his teacher that he was talking about his relationship with Hannah Thornton.

"We must be different, though. I would argue that the world would be quite dull if we perpetuated the same mistakes and victories for all eternity," Hale said wryly. He spoke with time on his side; a lifetime of experience colored his words while Thornton could only speculate on the life sprawling before him. "Have you considered my daughter?"

The question took him unawares, leaving Thornton's throat dry, but he proceeded in the match of wits. "How so?"

"Margaret and her mother were so different, as you noted, but their differences made them close. We thrive on diversity and the odd peculiarities between us. What fun is it to form an acquaintance with one who is a mere reflection of ourselves?" Hale smiled at the memory of his late wife and continued, "I used to study them, my quiet Maria and fearless Margaret, and I was always so surprised that they drew on each other for strength. Margaret was her mother's voice from time to time, exploring the world when Maria was too frail or frightened to do so, but Maria was her daughter's conscience. All too often Margaret could be hushed from unkindness or sharpness with only a look from her mother. And that's not to say that my girl is unruly or wild, just that she's a mind and a will of her own."

"That she does, sir." Thornton wondered if Margaret's father knew of her affair at the train station, if the stranger had ever curried her parents' favor and kindness. Again he imagined what it would have been like to be family in this home, to find peace amongst the books and furnishings that were so worn with being loved and used. He'd spent too many nights holding Margaret in his dreams, following the silent glow of a candle to find her face in the darkness, shining with a smile that snuffed out the firelight and lit his soul. But those were dreams, and reality was grey with soot that muted the shine of fantasies and hopes.

"If you want to talk about fathers," Hale explained, startling his companion from his reverie, "you really must consider mothers, too. Indeed, your own mother would be quite surprised to have been left out of this conversation for so long already."

"I think you might be right there," Thornton nodded. He could not deny the role his mother had played in his life; in another world with another family, he might be another man on the same vast streets, searching aimlessly for work that would put but a loaf of bread on the table. His mother's wisdom and thoughtfulness had helped him learn the ways of the world. Hale might be correct in arguing that he would still be the same man without anyone else's involvement, but that man would not be John Thornton without Hannah Thornton's guidance.

"Too many men get lost in their lives without remembering the lessons their mothers taught them, and most of it is because men are simply too stubborn to remember that women think. It might be rather revolutionary, but I like to think that my daughter can reason and think with the quickness of most men I've had in my acquaintance," Hale said. He did not speak with pride or haughtiness; he was genuinely proud of his daughter, and Thornton felt a pang to know the secret that her father did not share. He'd lied to save his tutor the pain of knowing that shameful truth, and he was not prepared to expose it in their lesson, but he wondered if Hale's judgment would change if he knew of Margaret's secrecy.

"Still, a good mother is invaluable to a child, be it a son or a daughter," Hale sighed.

"I read in Sophocles last night, or the night before, that 'children are the anchors that hold a mother to life.' I shared that with my mother, and she only smiled," Thornton confided.

"I can imagine. Honestly I must say that Sophocles did a disservice in excluding fathers from that phrase. I could not have carried through these past few days without Margaret and…" The words disappeared into the candlelight between them, and Thornton thought he saw a shadow pass behind his friend's eyes. Hale shook his head and said, "No matter. As I was saying, well…what was I saying?"

Thornton chuckled and said, "You said fathers are connected to their children in the same way as a mother. I hope you're right. I'd like to think that someday I'll have a son, though I can only imagine how it must feel to share that connection with another person."

"A son or a daughter, you mean," Hale winked. Thornton smiled in acquiescence and said, "Yes, a son or a daughter."

"They make the world go around," Hale said gently. "And I can say that without deserting my faith, for I believe that God smiles at me each day when my daughter touches my cheek to say goodnight."

Thornton had nothing to say in reply, so he kept his peace and touched the binding of the book beside him.

"Plato seems to desert us when the world is challenging. I enjoy his arguments, but when things are difficult, I often find that it's best to turn to the Lord in the Bible," Hale murmured. "'May they who love you be like the sun when it rises in strength.' Those are words to take one out of bed in the morning, yes?" He thumbed through the book again and said, "I find it interesting to consider them the other way around. I often wonder if I love as purely as I can, if I can love in spite of sin and mistakes, with the strength of the sun, so to speak."

"It is difficult…"

Silence swallowed the room, leaving them again alone with their thoughts. Thornton thought of his heart and the woman who refused it, but Hale wondered about Thornton and his daughter. He remembered Bell's suggestion that his pupil had formed an attachment to Margaret, and he'd heard the hushed softness of her voice when she spoke to Thornton earlier that morning.

"Sometimes the truth is not what we want it to be, though. And then loving someone, or wanting them, it becomes almost impossible," Thornton ventured.

"Ah, well, there's your mistake. It is never impossible to love someone. In many ways, it is like the allegory of the cave in Plato's _Republic_. You have to look beyond the shadows that dance in front of you to see the real truth of the world outside." Hale considered his own words and the secrets that had slipped through his home since Frederick's clandestine return. "After all, one cannot have shadows without the brightness of light."

"The light of truth, then?"

"Perhaps. Or perhaps it is only the light of life, of existence. Of our human ability to make and forgive mistakes. We cannot know every truth or every secret, but we can trust the people we love and try to forgive the things we can't seem to understand."

Thornton privately considered Hale's argument, but his thoughts were overshadowed by the whispering memory of Margaret's laugh at a dinner party, the elegant trace of her fingertips against his palm, the warmth in her eyes when she spoke of the people she ached to help. He wanted to see her for who he knew she was, in spite of the fear in his heart that he might get hurt. He wanted her to welcome him into her heart so he could share in her secrets.

He wanted her, in spite of the pain, in spite of everything.

"I think it might be time for me to go," Thornton said gently.

"Oh, well, alright, but take care, John. I know things seem bleak, or dark…for everyone these days, but there's sun on the horizon, I'm sure."

"I hope you'll consider your own advice, then," Thornton replied. Hale smiled and clasped his friend's arm as they shook hands; like his daughter, he was learning the ways of Milton society with adept skill.

Thornton started for the door, but with his hand on the knob, he reflected on their conversation. His father might not have made him the man he was today, and he might well have become that person with or without a parent's kindness, but he knew that the man he would become tomorrow was still a shadow that flickered in the candlelight. He couldn't change the past, but he could take hold of the future.

"Mr. Hale," he said, capturing his friend's attention. "Please tell your daughter that I wish her a good day."

"Of course, John," Hale beamed. "I would be happy to."

"Good day, then."

"Good day." Hale watched his friend sweep down the staircase, folding his gloves in his palm as he reached for his hat and stepped into the dull sunshine of the afternoon. Evening would soon be settling in, and the quiet stillness of nightfall would envelop the town as worker and master alike retired to the flicker of a fireplace and the hum of gentle conversation. Hale liked this part of the day; sitting in his study, he wondered about Maria and the stillness of her sleep. He considered Thornton and remembered the days when he, too, was a young man experiencing that curious sensation of being so in love that his heart could barely contain it. He thought of Margaret, quiet in the sitting room with needlepoint she detested and a book of poems at her side. His mind traveled to Frederick, and he imagined a soft breeze stirring the delicate chestnut hair his mother used to caress with her own sweet hand.

Closing his Bible and reshelving Sophocles, he took in the afternoon. He looked at the moon that began to pierce through the hazy evening sky, and he realized that love and forgiveness cannot be separated. To forgive is to love, and to love is to forgive.

For everything. For mistakes and missteps, for the things left unsaid that were desperate to be uttered, for the words that should have been left in the vast caverns of the human heart. Hale knew that his God was a generous one, for he'd given his poor servant so much to love in the sweet breath of a lifetime. He extinguished the candle on his desk and thought again to Plato's assessment that men "will live out their lives in peace with health, as is likely, and at last, dying as old men, they will hand down other similar lives to their offspring."

With one last glance to the books on the shelf, he heard Margaret's voice in the foyer as she called him down to dinner. Smiling to himself, he closed the door behind him to share a peaceful, hearty meal with his child.

************

Author's Note: Thanks so much for reading! This is my first N&S fic; my boyfriend was out for the night, so I decided to get creative. I hope y'all enjoyed! -CH


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